


The Seventh Seal: Kingdom of the Serpent

by MB234



Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Banter, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Dark, Drinking, F/M, Fluff, Like so much, Lots of sexual tension, Michael Langdon POV, Oral Sex, Post-Apocalpyse Michael Langdon, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rituals, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-11-26 11:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20929559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MB234/pseuds/MB234
Summary: And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs, and when I saw her I wondered with great admiration.“Where is she?”Michael's voice was surer than it had been the first time he’d asked, nodemanded, this same question of his Father, but the hammering of his too-human heart was just as quick as it had been then. It was almost painful, fluttering and impatient as it rammed against the ironclad cage of his ribs.“I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked of me. Wormwood has fallen from the sky, a great burning mountain of fire has scorched the earth, the bottomless pits of Hell have been flung open. I have incinerated the world to make way for our kingdom. Now it’s time to rule.”But a King of the Apocalypse can't rule without his Queen...





	1. WORMWOOD

* * *

_Come closer if you dare my dear_

_Watch the wicked glint of hellfire blaze in my eyes_

_Listen as I laugh_

_Drunken and delirious on the blood of forgotten saints_

_Kiss my honeyed lips_

_Taste the sharpness hiding behind my smile_

_Touch me_

_Darling_

_Lover_

_Devil_

_Touch me and watch the world burn_

* * *

_Outpost 2_

_Beckley, West Virginia_

Hot, thick blood dripped lazily down between Michael Langdon’s upturned fingers. The wanton heaving of his chest allowed a few stray droplets to kiss his bared thighs with all the softness of the dewy rose petals that had bloomed in his Grandmother’s macabre garden. They burnt like the sweet succor of sin against his prostrate flesh.

_“Where is she?”_

His voice was surer than it had been the first time he’d asked, no _demanded,_ this same question of his Father, but the hammering of his too-human heart was just as quick as it had been then. It was almost _painful_, fluttering and impatient as it rammed against the ironclad cage of his ribs.

And yet an answer was still infuriatingly elusive. The only response from his Father was the low rumbling of cruel laughter that slid like noxious vapor from the steaming pool of bubbling blood cooling beneath his knelt form. At least it wasn’t _his _blood this time.

_“I need The Harlot by my side. Our work cannot be completed without her.” _

By Satan, how he sounded like a petulant child, pleading for dessert before he’d finished his dinner. But he needed_ her_ to keep his horsemen in check, to preside over the remaining members of the Cooperative, to maintain the fragile balance of the new order. He simply couldn’t re-build this scorched world without his Babylon. And the many agonizing years he’d spent feeling helpless, lacking answers, made this grueling inconsistency, this sole unknown factor, grate against his taut nerves like the damnable syllables of the Lord’s Prayer.

_“I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked of me. Wormwood has fallen from the sky, a great burning mountain of fire has scorched the earth, the bottomless pits of Hell have been flung open. I have incinerated the world to make way for our kingdom. Now it’s time to rule.”_

As if anyone still left on this God forsaken scrap of rock could have failed to notice that. Michael himself was reminded of his demonic work, his many grisly achievements, every time he stepped one elegantly booted foot into the ash-strewn world outside. He’d done that, _him_, despite all the obstacles he’d faced along the way – rejection from everyone he’d held dear, the loss of his beloved Ms. Mead, the rebellion of those obstinate witches that he’d finally crushed with the sweep of his palm and a maelstrom of bullets. Michael wasn’t above admitting that he was more than a little proud of his work, and now he wanted to share it with the worthy. With his consort.

**“Be patient, my Son.”**

Satan’s voice was as biting as the crack of a whip against prostrate flesh, as smooth as the slide of freshly spilt tears, as sweet as the sight of seven billion backs bent in contrition. When his Father spoke the world, and Michael, trembled.

**“She is near. The time for your union is almost nigh.”**

The syllables of his Father’s words were so sharp, Michael was sure they could cut steel. If he listened carefully enough he could just make out the agonized screams of the countless souls that writhed for eternity in the dark and blood and bone of the Inferno. It was music to his ears.

**“Outpost 3 is waiting, my Son. You have much work to do there.”**

The acrid steam that rose in sulfurous ribbons from the bubbling pool of blood congealing around his ankles suddenly slackened, receding with gusto as the rift between worlds sealed once more. He heard the diabolic rasp of Satan’s bone chilling cackle split the cruor soaked air before silence engulfed him, the ragged rasping of his breaths and the wild pounding of his heart ringing like the clap of gunfire in his ears.

Michael took his time rising to his feet, musing over his Father’s words with careful attention as he absently brushed the rapidly drying blood from his knees. He thoughtlessly wound his way around the corpses strewn between him and his clothes, gifting the recently deceased inhabitants of Outpost 2 with no more than a stray pallid glance as he dressed.

As frustratingly elusive as his Father could be, Michael could sense the ripe, real promise lingering at the edges of his words, the whisper of reward behind the bite of his consonants. Despite all of the Devil’s previous elusions, the message was clear. There could be no doubt.

His Queen was in Outpost 3.

* * *

_Cooperating._

That’s what the flaxen haired, blue-eyed devil Langdon had called the rigorous rounds of impending questions, and the gilded, grueling tests, that you were all to be subjected to. But you had the remarkable fortune to be intimately familiar with the Cooperative already, and as such, you took the deceiving moniker with a generous pinch of salt. You heartily suspected that you were the only one in this damned Outpost that had actually earned your seat at the post-apocalyptic table through your bloodline, not with cold, hard cash or mere happenstance. Your family had been members of the Cooperative long before its sensible rebranding, back when its agents met in secret churches at the witching hour instead of in multi-million dollar high-rise boardrooms equipped with the finest blow the Devil could provide.

In fact, you’d go so far as to wager that you knew just as much, if not more, about this clandestine organization as the smooth talking, silk bedecked blonde that had swooshed into Outpost 3 on his perfectly buffed Jimmy Choo’s like he owned the damn place.

You knew about the regularly practiced Black Masses, the uncountable drops of human blood spilt by those in the inner circle, the top secret lists with far too many familiar names, the redacted files, the Armageddon agenda, and, most importantly, you knew about the whole pledging-your-soul-to-Satan-for-all-eternity thing. You’d cut your teeth on men like Langdon since you were old enough to correctly pronounce Beelzebub, you knew exactly how his kind worked.

For them, everything was measured in perceived value, in how far you would go for the Cooperative, in the sacrifices you were willing to make for the good of the group. So as you’d watched your bunkmates titter excitedly like a gaggle of geese, intoning in hushed, fevered whispers that _surely their astronomically priced golden tickets would guarantee them a place in The Sanctuary_, you just hadn’t been able to keep yourself from rolling your eyes in sardonic condemnation. These preening, prancing peacocks had _no idea_ what kind of pecking order they found themselves entangled in now. With the Cooperative it was life and death, eat or be eaten, survival of the fittest. Only the very top of the food chain survived, and each predator that prowled that echelon would_ savor _the chance to sup on the souls of the feeble. Which was why Langdon must never discover your deepest secret, your fatal flaw, your ultimate weakness.

Your soul was still your own.

Your first word had been brimstone; you’d learned the Major Arcana before you’d learned to ride a bike; your whole life had been steeped in damnation and yet you’d never completed your Black Mass. You had yet to utter the infernal midnight words of devotion to the Dark Lord below, you had never crushed a fragile spark of life in your palms, pressed your lips to the racing rhythm of a dying pulse, grinned as hot lifeblood spilt from between your fingers.

Your mother had died while bearing you into this cursed world through blood and pain, and your father…. He’d been shot through the heart in front of you by an ambitious group of FBI agents working against orders, expiring before he could ensure your proper initiation. Not to worry though, the Cooperative had swiftly amended that particular governmental misstep with chilling ferocity.

  
But even after all these years, your chest still ached when you thought of your father. You’d loved and hated the man, reviled and revered him. Your father had been the strong arm of your household, the backbone upon which your familial dynasty had stood. Centuries back, one of his ambitious ancestors had slain her children in exchange for the rights to a particularly lucrative oil field on the Arabian peninsula, committing an act of such stunning savagery that the Devil himself had sent her a bouquet of blood red roses the very next week.

Ever since then your family had flourished in the Cooperative, forming the cornerstone of its continued operation. Your survival during the apocalypse had been pre-determined,_ expected_, and you were more than a little annoyed that some platinum haired pretty boy would deign to judge your fitness for The Sanctuary, no matter what amazements his pedigree denoted.

But that didn’t mean you wouldn’t endeavor to look positively _delicious _for your meeting with him.

Venable, and the stick that was always up her ass, insisted that all the Outpost inhabitants of your class wear garments hued somewhere between lavender and amethyst, and you acquiesced only because you knew the color suited you, but she certainly couldn’t ensure that you adopt the ridiculous antiquated clothing styles of the other Purples. You’d had time to prepare for the Armageddon, to stock pile your closet with luxury items, and you weren’t about to sacrifice your prized designer silks and satins for a goddamn corset and too much muslin.

No, for your meeting with Langdon you’d donned one of your finest gowns - a rich plum silk number with razor thin straps that clung desperately to your shoulders and a neckline that plunged down into a deep ‘V’ that nearly reached your navel before it rippled and swirled to the floor. You’d kept everything else simple, letting your hair trip and curl over your shoulders, wanting to show off the bounty of tattoos peppered across the map of your skin for his searing celadon gaze.

You’d just been ushered into the sparse, yet luxurious office suite in which Langdon conducted his interviews by the stoic Ms. Mead, only to find yourself completely alone mere moments later. Nothing but the roaring fire crackling cheerfully in the corner and a few tall flickering candles, their starched peaks thrust into the air like gnarled finger bones, lit the cavernous room. You sighed, running a palm absently up and down your bared shoulders as you examined the room, appreciating the minimalist, modern décor scattered throughout. You were busy examining the wrought iron staircase curving in the corner of the room when your eyes fell on an open file on Langdon’s desk, your attention drawn by the familiar letters of your name.

You scowled as you realized that he had personal information on you, documents that detailed all the important events in your life, and this simple fact _surprised _you. You’d had no idea the Cooperative would be tracking you, watching you, taking stock of your life. You were just beginning to doubt your mastery of the inner workings of the Cooperative when you stumbled across your mother’s name. She’d been dead your whole life, but it still made you pause when you ran your fingers over the consonants that denoted her revered moniker, caressed the vowels that had served to soothe your pains countless times before. “DECEASED” was printed in bold just beside her name, but there was no cause of death listed, no specifics like the ones detailed for your father’s cause of death about two lines down.

Who the hell was this _Langdon_ that he had such knowledge of your past, even in it’s incomplete state? It made you suddenly on edge that he had access to the facts and figures of your life and you knew nothing about him but his name, and not even his full one at that. You stepped slowly away from the desk, running a gently shaking hand through your loose hair as you gravitated towards the crackling fire. You had begun to contemplate burning the file out of spite when the heavy door at the other end of the room creaked open.

  
Langdon stood in the doorway, an absolute vision of the power and prestige the Cooperative prized above all things. You hadn’t really considered the implications of being alone in a room with him, but this close to his towering form you knew that you’d vastly underestimated the effect he had. The spun silk of his platinum hair curled gently over his broad shoulders, framing features that were the perfect, tempting blend of masculine and feminine. Heavy lidded eyes the exact color of a raging winter storm belayed nothing, but there was a certain set to his high cheekbones, the strong cut of his jaw, the fullness of his sensual mouth, that made you think that he just might enjoy looking at you as well. His presence was _substantial_, dizzying and unspeakably foreign, though you recognized the immaculate press of his trousers, the moneyed cut of his dress shirt and the length of smooth fabric tied expertly about his sturdy neck as undoubtedly designer, and the small familiarity worked miracles to calm the pounding of your pulse.

You regained a measure of your composure as you surveyed him, though when he moved towards his desk in measured strides you could have sworn that you spied the wicked curve of a wing unfurling about his shoulders, or perhaps the sharp point of a horn twisting along the line of his scalp when his shadow flickered onto the wall behind him.

That was ridiculous, of course, but still it had sharp apprehension seizing your tongue between firm fingers, strengthening your guard against attack, physical or otherwise. There was a long heartbeat of silence as Langdon stalked to his desk in smooth, predatory strides, his azure gaze intent on you the whole time.

“Welcome,” you were a bit startled by the casual warmth that colored his tone, but the smoothness of his syllables, the bravado permeating the handsome quirk of his full mouth, were just as you’d remembered from his introductory speech, “It’s a great reprieve to meet with another storied member of the Cooperative. Do come and sit with me.”

  
You didn’t miss the commanding edge to his words, or the scopic palm he had raised to usher you into the chair opposite from where he had paused, smiling, and you mentally guarded yourself against any friendliness the gesture might cultivate within you. Slowly, cautiously, you stalked closer to him, your gaze raking down his sturdy form in search of weaknesses you could exploit, angles you could make note of for future manipulation. Unfortunately, if this _Langdon_ possessed any measure of either, he hid them well.

“Given your history, I’m assuming that you know how this works,” you canted your head in confirmation as you crossed your legs and laced your fingers together carefully over one knee, still not quite sure your voice would hold if you spoke, “Good. Tell me about yourself.”

You couldn’t quite stem the scoff that bubbled from between your parted lips then, nor could you stop the biting question that followed, “Isn’t all of that in the little gray file with my name on the tab?” _The one that curiously, omitted your mother’s cause of death…_

Langdon’s lips quirked, though the emotion behind the expression didn’t quite meet his eyes, “This file tells me that you are partial to pomegranates, you prefer Dior to Prada and your father was shot and killed in front of you.”

You just managed to suppress a wince at that last bit, your features automatically jumping to convert any vestige of pain into a neutral expression even as your chest tightened painfully. You’d sorely hoped that Langdon wouldn’t ask about him, the wounds of your Father’s passing still festered deep in your chest, but you couldn’t say that the statement surprised you.

You steeled yourself as Langdon continued; you couldn’t afford to forget that a real predator prowled these hallways now, “But it doesn’t tell me what I really want to know, nor does it show me what I really want to see,” yet you were still shocked down to your very marrow when he finished with a command.

“Remove your dress.”

* * *

If it were at all possible for Michael to suffer a headache borne out of sheer boredom, he was positive that now would have been the time it would have manifested itself. 

He’d just undergone a full day of _Cooperating_ with some of Outpost 3’s decidedly less viable Sanctuary candidates, and if he had to listen to another sniveling attempt to kiss his admittedly pert ass, he _would _burn this whole fucking bunker to the ground with the snap of his fingers. His bones ached with impatience; he felt it burrowing deep beneath his flesh, flicking out at the corners of his eyes, slipping down the notches of his spine. _She _had to be here somewhere in this damned Outpost, his Father had promised him. He was owed, and he wanted his _fucking_ due.

  
What Michael needed was a distraction to pass the time, or else he was sure he’d lose his damn mind.

According to your relatively sparse file, you were a lifelong member of the Cooperative with an institutional pedigree that stretched back generations. He suspected you would understand the nature of commands, of orders that were not to be questioned, and right now, he wanted to look at something beautiful, something entertaining, something _interesting_, simply because he was so fucking bored, and it would be _fun._

He had to fight the very real smirk that threatened to upturn his mouth when, without a modicum of protest and just the barest hint of a devilish smile, you rose to your feet and turned, exposing the smooth panes of your bare shoulders to his hungry gaze.

You had quite a few tattoos scattered across the smooth expanse of your skin, and Michael was a bit shocked to find himself wanting to trace his tongue over each and every one of them. There was a cluster of roses in full, splendid bloom on one of your slim shoulders, a geometric pattern that he couldn’t quite make out on the back of one forearm and what looked like a serpent in mid hiss, ready to strike, coiled about your dainty wrist. Regrettably, the long hem of your dress hid any hint of your legs from his view, but he was suddenly dying to know what surprises he’d find if he pressed his lips to the delicate dips of your ankle, skimmed his fingers up the backs of your quaking thighs.

“I do hope you didn’t have to witness crusty old Evie Gallant in the nude as well,” Michael had to work harder than expected to stem the sudden laughter that threatened to escape from behind the cage of his clenched teeth, “That would be a Hellish sight.”

Michael momentarily lost his valiant battle with the smirk that was desperately trying to curve it’s way across his mouth, and in response he redoubled his efforts to control the other parts of himself, which seemed strangely intent on rebellion as you slid a darkly painted nail beneath each thin strap that clung to your shoulders and _tugged_. His gaze was rapt on those sparse slips of fabric as they fluttered gleefully down your slim shoulders only to get caught in the crook of your arms, bent as you held the front of your dress gently to your breasts.

“There are some things too horrible even for Hell,” Michael replied, leaning forward to brace his elbow on the wooden surface of his desk, careful not to press too firmly, or the wood just might splinter under the weight of his impatience, “Turn towards me and tell me something true.”

Michael was inexplicably_ glad_ to see that you were smiling, playing along with him beautifully, as you pivoted with unbearable lethargy in his direction. The way the firelight splayed about your deliciously dainty collarbones, framed the smooth, supple halo of your hair, had his breaths coming fast, labored, “I don’t give a shit about a single person in this Outpost. I could watch them all die and not feel a thing.”

“Come now,” Michael crooned with mock concern as he hastily stood and strode towards you, abruptly unable to suffer any obstacle between you and his hot, hungry palms, “What did they ever do to you?”

“Absolutely fucking nothing,” you replied, your churning gaze fixed on him as he neared, and suddenly Michael found himself wanting to preen for you, to show off his prowess just a bit, “None of them are depraved enough to be interesting. They make for very poor happy hour companions.”

“Even Ms. Venable?” Michael countered, breathing you in deeply as he circled you, drinking in the topography of your supple body, his mouth watering for the sugar and spice scent that lingered in the juncture of your neck, the sweet tang of your singing blood as it called to him, the sultry pounding of your pulse in his ears. He held his breath as he reached out to skim one ring-bedecked finger over the snake coiling around your wrist, its jaws split wide, poised to spray an impressive arc of venom into your palm.

“She has all the depravity of a sexually frustrated nun, and just as much guilt to boot,” you replied, a wide, warm smile playing about your lips as you craned your neck to gaze back at him, a heady mixture of amusement and attraction playing about the whirling depths of your lovely eyes, and Michael wondered when the hell he’d started to like the way it felt when they fixed on him. But there was something _missing_ there too, something stark and chilling and far too familiar in those who ventured too close to his blazing soul.

“You’re not afraid of me.” It wasn’t quite a question, but as it slipped unbidden from Michael’s lips he found himself anxiously awaiting an answer.

“Of course not,” you shot back at him without a moment’s hesitation, and something bruised and battered and long forgotten, tucked away deep in Michael’s chest _soared_ at that small victory, “Should I be?”

Michael brushed aside the wealth of silken hair that spilled down your back with the pads of his fingers, leaning in to just barely brush his lips across the shell of your ear, reveling in the warmth that played about the graceful lines of your neck as you shivered beneath the onslaught of his nearness, “_Yes_, you should be.”

Michael drew away and was just about to let the abundance of hair twined between his fingers fall down your back once more when he spied some strangely familiar shapes imprinted along the elegant curve of your spine. After entertaining a longer, more languid glance he thought the letters might be Aramaic, and his mind whirred as he hastily translated what little he recognized, namely the symbols tattooed into the flesh that was positioned at the small of your back, where your hips just began to flare so sweetly.

_Mother of Harlots_

Michael froze and blinked once, twice. He swallowed hard, his lips parting as he sucked in a greedy, disbelieving breath. Sharp tendrils of incredulity warred for purchase among the glittering hope that flared to life within him, whirling vibrant patterns along his temples. Michael’s heart sped up as he ghosted one trembling, ring-clad finger down the vertebrae in question. He mentally checked his rather dusty Semitic, kicking himself for not keeping up the rest of his vocabulary as he translated the archaic words again and again, coming up with the same delightful, damning answer each time.

_Mother of Harlots_

The names of his long awaited consort were emblazoned in wine and wrath along the smooth curve of his brow, branded on the inside of his itching fingers, etched into the heaving mass of his human heart. And, evidently, they were tattooed all-too-temptingly along the elegant spine of a mortal with ruby red lips and glinting, greedy eyes.

Michael whirled you around to face him without warning, his lengthy fingers closing tightly around your upper arms, his eyes skimming over you with novel interest, with determined, stalwart exploration. He reveled in the gasp that slipped from your parted crimson lips, the warmth and woman scent that washed over his starved senses, with all the gusto of a dying man.

He hadn’t given much thought to your features beyond assigning them the general label of_ pleasing_, but as he leaned in, his attention fixed raptly on you, he felt the marrow of his bones quicken.

You weren’t just pleasing, Michael realized, you were _devastating_. You were a siren, calling sweetly to the brimstone in his blood and the man that battered at his breast in equal measure. Your skin was luminous, as if lit from within by some preternatural, glorious blaze, and it was supple as silk as he brushed his palms along the heaving warmth of it. Your cheekbones looked sharp enough to slice him down to the bone, especially when you smiled up at him, and he would wager every one of his Steve McQueen scarves that a _legion_ of men had found their ruin on the curve of your cupid’s bow. If he sampled your blood he was certain it would be comprised of at least one part ichor.

And was that an unmistakable beam of hellfire he had spied playing about your brow just now?

“What are you?” Michael rasped, the backs of his fingers moving to rake down the glowing curve of your cheek of their own accord, and he swore he felt the sweet ecstasy of triumph when the crescent moons of your lashes fluttered so becomingly in response to his touch.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you countered, looking as though you’d sway where you stood if not for the steel band of the arm he had curled around the curve of your waist. Michael drew you closer, ghosting his lips along the place where your pulse pounded strongest, dragging a canine hungrily along your carotid artery.

“I sense a power in you, a hunger that nearly rivals my own,” Michael husked, reaching out to taste the edges of your mind, further spurred when he found such sweet resistance pushing back against him with gusto, “I think the dark corners of your soul are just what I’m looking for in my new world.”

“The dark corners of my soul, “ you whispered as if you were savoring the notion, as if you were both afraid and delighted, leaning into him even as he felt your mind rebel, though the stark truth of your being remained frustratingly elusive to him.

Michael wanted to bite down on the warm juncture of your neck, taste the ripe sweetness of your flesh, confirm the vibrant, visceral notions scrambling for purchase in his whirling mind, but he feared he’d already said to much, done too much without any assurance that his suspicions were correct, and he cursed himself wickedly as he stepped away from you as if he’d been burned. Michael had to stem the sudden impulse to steady you as you rocked on your feet, unmoored by his abrupt absence. But he’d made mistakes during his ascent to power, and the impulse to consult his Father, to check and re-check the facts, had him winning the vicious fight for a measure of the steely control that you seemed to banish from him so effortlessly.

“We should continue this at a later date,” Michael intoned after taking a heartbeat to clear his throat, and his head, thoroughly confounded to realize just how tight his slacks had become, how quick his pulse was as it pounded at his nape. He shuddered to realize that he was utterly r_ocked_ by the pure, unadulterated strength of his body’s reaction to your closeness, to _you_, “I fear we’ve gone quite over our allotted time together. My next appointment will be waiting.”

You blinked hard, seeming to stir yourself out of an equally powerful spell as you swallowed and slipped the slim straps of your gown up your shoulders once more. With a hearty measure of pride Michael noted that your delicate fingers shook as you smoothed them down the front of your dress.

“Of course,” your voice was wine drunk and languid as you spoke, and Michael reveled in every syllable of its deliciously sensual bite, “Though I will look forward to our next meeting.” The succor of the smile that played about your crimson mouth set his blood on fire once more, and as he watched you leave he cursed every other appointment on his agenda this day to the lowest circle of Hell.

“Don’t you want to know how you did?” Michael called after you once your delicate fingers had closed around the doorknob, noting with a hint of displeasure that he had already begun to crave more of you, more of that delicious banter, that wonderful distraction you’d provided him with urgent desperation, “Everyone else has asked.”

“I think you’ve already made your choices, Langdon,” you threw the honeyed lilt of your voice over the curve of your shoulder, your alluring eyes warm, glinting as you raked your gaze raptly down his form once more, “Besides, I know how this goes, I’m just another arm of the Cooperative. I won’t get my questions answered just because I ask nicely.”

Michael did smile in earnest then, more than a little surprised to find genuine appreciation blooming in his chest, somewhere near the hammering of his heart, and as you walked away he worked to memorize the fall of your thick hair, the sensual curve of your waist, the wicked swish of your hips. But his smile faded as something like fresh honey poured over rotting fruit bloomed in the back of his throat, the sour taste of poorly disguised menthol coating his tongue, and with a start Michael realized that you’d just lied to him, seemingly without knowing. He wasn’t sure who you were or why it wasn’t true, but you absolutely were _not _just another agent of the Cooperative.

And with a wicked thrill that sent a visceral kind of excitement shooting down his spine like hellfire, Michael thoroughly suspected that he’d burn the very heavens down to know the truth of who you were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely readers!!
> 
> I sincerely hope that you enjoyed this first chapter! I'm planning on making this a seven chapter story that explores our favorite Anti-Christ on the prowl for his Queen. I laid the hints on thickly here, but extra kudos to you if you can already tell where I'm going with the big reveal! 
> 
> With this fic I really wanted to explore more of the religious imagery and symbolism that the AHS: Apocalypse left out. It was so enjoyable to write this chapter, I could easily expand this into a series if you like what you read!
> 
> I really hope that you enjoyed, there will be more coming very soon! If you have any thoughts, comments or concerns please voice them in the comments below! How was my portrayal of Michael, was he in character? Was he dark enough, sassy enough? Let me know your thoughts!
> 
> BTW I post mood boards on my Tumblr for most of my fics, so I made one for this chapter as well! If you're interested in checking it out I'll like it[ here.](https://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/188181806859/chapter-one) (And please feel free to follow/PM me!)
> 
> Thanks!


	2. THE GREAT DRAGON

_You are cordially invited to dine with Michael Langdon this evening_…

The gold embossed solicitation that had been slipped beneath your door sometime during the course of the day s_hould_ have been innocent enough, after all it was just simple jet black card stock, thick and unmistakably expensive, emblazoned with the elegant aureate script that denoted a very tempting proposition. And besides, it was an invitation to a blessedly_ private _dinner away from the squabbling inhabitants of Outpost 3; you should have been over the moon.

But instead it set a wicked frisson of nerves to twist and coil in your belly, spurred your heart to hammer hard in your chest as you applied the finishing touches to your crimson lipstick, slicked your palms with moisture as you smoothed them anxiously over the satin slip of your dress.

Sure there were the expected hints of excitement blooming about your ribs at the venerable prestige of a seat at the Cooperative agent’s table, the sharp, searing pleasure that skittered down your spine at not having to endure yet another meal punctuated by Coco’s grating, incessant complaints or Evie’s never-ending trips down memory lane, but you were disturbingly nervous for this engagement too. And deep down in your chest, near the hammering of your heart that seemed resolved to echo a tempting, familiar, forbidden name, you knew it was because you were seeing _him_ tonight.

_Langdon_ with his sultry, voracious stare that spurred a visceral, searing warmth to bloom low between your thighs and a touch so tempting it could make Mother Mary weep with want for the Devil himself. Anticipation clutched your nape like a vice as you read, then re-read, the tantalizing golden script etched starkly onto damning, inky paper, the personalized note written in what seemed to be Langdon’s own hand.

_Wear something revealing tonight, I want to sup on those undoubtedly stunning thighs of yours while I enjoy my Chianti._

_\- M. L._

And that, you were not ashamed to say, had made your Louboutin-clad toes _curl _in delight.

Before your cataclysmic meeting with Langdon, you had assumed that he was like all the other men of the Cooperative, that you would’ve been able to read him like a book and have him securely wrapped around your finger by the time you sauntered your pert ass right out of his office, and as he’d clutched you in the sturdy circle of his arms and gazed down at you with the most delectable mixture of awe and attraction playing about his brow you were sure that you’d been right.

  
And then he’d caressed your face with all the gentleness of a man besotted, and you swore you’d seen stars burst to vibrant life behind the urgent flutter of your lashes. You could handle simple lust and callous objectification, indeed you’d given hardly a passing thought to disrobing in front of him, but the gentleness in the brush of his fingers about the dips of your wrist bones, the reverence with which he’d slipped his nails down your spine and whispered your name, had made you _melt_ for him.

The sizable manipulation that he’d showcased hadn’t surprised you one bit, but the strength of your reactions to him had rocked you to your core. You might have known men like him, but none of them had ever set your blood afire, lit a smoldering coil of desire deep in your marrow, and you were almost frightened by what you’d do for just one more taste of those sweet, forbidden sensations.

You somehow managed to keep the roiling chaos of your disquiet coiled tightly in your chest, a roaring tornado of sensation just barely fettered by your momentous control, as you slipped out into the hallway and made your way to Langdon’s chambers. You traveled alone this time, apparently Langdon trusted that you wouldn’t need an escort to remember where to find him, and a small part of you cursed the fact that he was _very_ right. In truth, you’d gravitated to his door more than once in the many hours since your last meeting with him, spurred by some indescribable want, some magnetic kind of attraction that had you thinking up all sorts of feeble excuses to disturb him. Each time you’d returned to your suite of rooms thoroughly deflated, berating yourself for the mewling neediness your actions belayed.

But if you were being honest with yourself, the kind of honest that you could only sustain in the fragile embrace of midnight, you would have sought him out tonight whether you’d had an invitation or not.

The gentle clacking of your heels juxtaposed in strange tandem with the low, dull hammering of your heart that flung itself against your ribcage as if it too longed to be near Langdon, to bask in the sultry glow of his presence. Though your steps ceased as you reached his door, your heart pounded on, and you worked to stem its frantic beats with long, slow breaths as you raised a diamond draped hand to knock.

But the aperture swung open before your knuckles could reach it, the curve of Langdon’s steel-cut cheekbones and the aureate, raging blue of his cobalt gaze registering to your shocked senses before you cleared your throat and glanced down at your heeled feet, drawing some comfort from the smooth, familiar lines of your legs, dutifully exposed for him. The silk of your dress was closer to crimson than concord, but it showcased the smooth curves of your calves, the taut, supple flesh of your thigh so beautifully, you just hadn’t been able to resist donning it for Langdon. Besides, Venable would never know, and you strongly suspected she wouldn’t have been able to do a damn thing about it even if she did find out somehow.

“You’re a welcome sight for sore eyes,” Langdon’s voice was low and smooth, and you strongly suspected that it held the hint of a genuine smile, a notion so tantalizing that you just had to glance up to confirm, “And you dressed as requested.” Langdon was, in fact, smiling warmly down at you and something you suspected were the poor remnants of your battered heart soared in response.

“How could I not when you left such a tantalizing note?” You couldn’t quite stem the answering grin that curved your lips as your eyes met his, that glowing rain swept gaze doing wonders to melt the edge off of your nerves, “Besides, the card was just _so_ _pretty_.”

“I will provide you with nothing but the best, I can assure you of that,” Langdon intoned, a confident, prideful lilt to his voice as he stepped aside for you to enter. You didn’t quite have the time to fully ponder the meaning behind that intriguing statement before you sucked in a delighted breath, shocked and pleased in equal, thorough measure by the sight before you.

The Spartan expanse of Langdon’s office had been transformed with the help of dozens of candles that cast a warm, sultry glow about the transformed space, softening the harder edges of the modern fixtures, accenting the crimson velvet that sat atop a small, elegant table set for two in the middle of the room. The smooth leather bound chairs you’d noticed during your last visit had been situated at either end of the table, which was piled high with ornate crystal ware and sets of fine porcelain plates. Several steaming dishes of distinctly non-cube like food wafted mouthwatering aromas in your direction, nearly wrenching an embarrassingly lusty groan from both your throat and your stomach. A wealth of what you stalwartly hoped was wine winked at you from both gleaming polished goblets and crystal decanters, practically begging to be sampled. Langdon, it seemed, had pulled out all the stops for your visit tonight.

“You have _real_ food,” you gasped, whirling around to balk at him, completely unable to muster up even a modicum of shame at the abundant amazement coloring your tone, “And something to drink besides mineral water,” you swooned and placed your manicured hands over your heart in a gesture that was mostly comical, but more than a bit earnest as you crooned, “I could _kiss_ you for this.”

Langdon’s gaze darkened with a powerful lust that tripped down your body like a dare, searing against your flushed skin with all the stalwart bite of an ironclad command, and you swallowed hard as he took a slow, calculating step towards you to brush his fingers gently across the curve of your neck, down the pounding of your pulse. His touch set your flesh alight, setting your heart back into its wild rhythm, and you swore that he smiled as if he _knew_ the effect that he had on you.

“Come, sit with me,” he stepped away to pull out one of the soft leather chairs for you, breaking you abruptly from the spell that the whirling blizzard of his gaze always seemed to cast on you. Logical thought slowly seeped back into your mind as you cleared your throat and slid into the plush seat with all the grace you could muster.

“How did you get fresh meat?” You questioned, studying the mouthwatering haunch of what looked like spit-roasted venison with a poignant mixture of ravenous hunger and astonished awe, “Where did all of this come from? The Sanctuary?”

“The blessings of the Cooperative are showered upon the worthy,” Langdon replied, his words far more cryptic than you would have liked, but the aroma wafting from the table ensured that you wouldn’t dwell on them for too long. Langdon cut generous portions for you both, heaping your plates high with each delectable dish laid out before you as he spoke, “And you are the most worthy of them all.”

You conversed easily as you made your way through several exquisite servings of the most incredible food you’d enjoyed in recent memory. It was surprisingly easy to whittle away the hours with him, laughing at the newest hairstyles Coco had deigned to sport, chatting about the recent gossip in Outpost 3, lamenting about Venable’s insufferable rules. And all the while you learned things about him – his raging affinity for French toast, his favorite color, black or red depending on the day, and his regard for loyalty above all things. The austere mask he had donned for your previous meeting seemed to have melted away into something softer, gentler, though you could still sense a feral beast prowling at the periphery of his gaze, slouching about the tilt of his broad shoulders.

But it was a beast that knew how to delight, for when it came time for dessert he unveiled a cluster of gorgeous pomegranates, rich, red and so deliciously ripe, your mouth watered at the mere sight of them.

“Langdon!” You exclaimed as you clapped your hands together, bouncing in your seat as you beamed at him, deeply touched that he’d remembered your love of the sweet, tangy fruit.

“Please, call me Michael,” he’d rasped in reply, a warm, genuine smile flitting about the tempting curves of his lips, his pale eyes luminous as they lit on you. You’d spared just a moment to entertain the blush that bloomed hotly on your cheekbones before you eagerly dug in, sighing as the familiar taste flooded your senses once more.

  
“You don’t want any?” You questioned once you realized that Michael wasn’t partaking. He seemed more interested in the elaborate show you put on as you ate with all the carefulness of a toddler, rich juice spilling from the corners of your mouth, fingers bloodied with fruity cruor.

“I’ll allow myself to indulge later…” had been his only cryptic reply, and you’d just shrugged, figuring that it meant more for you.

You were thoroughly sated, and your guard was markedly lowered, when Michael inquired, “Now I understand that your requisite Satanic studies concluded some time before all of this Armageddon business. Tell me about that.”

You blinked in surprise, despite the fancy invitations and impressive banquet spreads you hadn’t expected Michael to actually give a damn about your life, but the intensity of his gaze as it poured over your shocked features had you second guessing that assumption.

“Well, I learned everything about the Dark Lord, the various different ways to pray to Him, how to be worthy of the ultimate goal of Armageddon, and of course the Black Masses,” you chose your words carefully between sips of the wine glinting in your glass, knowing this could all end very badly if he learned your secret, your shame, “I tried to do my part as was expected of a Member of my status, especially since I am the only remaining arm of my family.”

“But you stopped going to church regularly,” Michael said, curling his fingers around the fine crystal of his goblet as he spoke, “Why?”

You took the space of a few heartbeats to gulp down another hearty swig from your own cup, which brimmed with a delicious earthy red that you suspected might actually be Chianti, needing the time to collect yourself before you answered, “It was too hard after I lost my father. I am still a devout believer, still very much a follower of the church, but whenever I attended services all I got were spinach casseroles and sympathetic diatribes about what a great man my father was, how much he did to advance the dark cause. It was just too much.”

Something that looked suspiciously like understanding, like empathy, flashed across Michael’s perfect porcelain features for just a moment, and your heart leapt in your chest as he reached out one glittering hand to brush his fingers across the delicate bones of your wrist, vibrant tenderness running rampant in the glittering pools of his celadon eyes, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

You blinked to clear the tears that suddenly threatened to fall from your fluttering lashes, clearing your throat just in time for Michael to prompt, “And your mother?”

You flicked your gaze up to his once more only to get caught in a maelstrom of churning, hopeful blue, and you suddenly got the sense that Michael was unbearably anxious for your answer, that this was a test somehow, “You must know that she’s dead.”

“Yes,” Michael pressed, “But the exact nature of her death is a mystery to the Cooperative and to me,” you got the distinct impression that he was _not_ a man who liked inconsistencies, “How did she die?”

“Horribly,” you rasped after another hearty swig of wine, running a finger absently over the rim of your dwindling glass as you gazed at the candles flickering in the middle of the table, lost in thoughts of blood and birth, in something that was half memory, half dream of her velvet skin and laughing eyes and soft, strong voice. Everything about her death had been demonic, brimming with evil omens, which of course had delighted your father; he had always bragged about how special you were, had insisted that you would hold a pivotal role in the chaos to come. But he’d refused to discuss the details of your mothers passing with anyone but you, finding the loss of the love of his life too painful to relive. “She died giving birth to me. Nearly every bone in her body had been broken from within, but in the end it seemed that her heart just gave out, unable to sustain her anymore.”

“My mother died in childbirth as well, perishing as she bore me into this wicked world.” Michael’s voice was soft, reflective, and you found yourself spellbound at this small shattering piece of him, this private pain that he exposed so willingly to you now, “It’s a wrenching thing, to know that you are the reason your mother is gone. You wonder if she loved you, even for a moment, before she expired.”

“Yes,” your heart twisted wildly in your chest at his words, seeming to delight in this shared agony, at this chance to be seen, understood, “Yes, exactly.”

Michael’s celadon gaze flickered across your face, a pensive sort of fervor banked in his eyes as he seemed to consider some weighty decision for a moment before settling on an undeniably cataclysmic conclusion, “I wasn’t sure before, but now there can be no mistake,” you had no idea what he was talking about, but the intensity that colored the ardent set of his features, that shone like hellfire in the icy depths of his eyes, had you shivering with apprehension, “What do you really know about the Apocalypse, what had you heard before the bombs went off?”

“I knew that the Anti-Christ had risen,” your skin prickled sharply as you replied, and suddenly you remembered the strange words he’d husked just before you’d parted ways in this very room, your head spinning as your body clenched with the potent memory of his predatory teeth sliding down your jugular, his hot tongue lapping hungrily at the place where your pulse pounded the strongest.

_“I sense a power in you, a hunger that nearly rivals my own…I think the dark corners of your soul are just what I’m looking for in my new world.”_

“But you hadn’t heard a name or seen a face?” Michael pressed, leaning forward to grasp the edges of the table, his knuckles going white as he awaited your response.

“No,” you supplied him, shaking your head to reinforce the quaking slip of your voice, and as the candlelight flickered fiercely about the room you were _sure_ you saw the wicked rush of a pair of demonic wings unfurling about Michael’s broad shoulders, “_Why_?”

“Because it’s time the scales fell from your eyes,” Michael rose in slow, deliberate movements imbued with all the grace of a predator in mid hunt and as he stalked towards you, you got the undeniable impression that _you _were his intended prey, “It’s time you look at me and see the terrible truth of things. Let me show you the wonders of my kingdom. Let us dine on the fruit of my garden of bones, revel in the terrible, secret wisdom from the tree of knowledge, paint our skin with the blood of our subjects.”

“For I am the Anti-Christ, Bringer of the End Times, King of the Apocalypse-”

It was impossible, _inconceivable_, and yet some lust drunk, reverent part of your reeling mind_ believed_ him. When the firelight flickered just so across his towering form you swore you saw a crown of beastly, hellish power gracing his brow – or was that just the pale kiss of his golden hair – though no matter how many times you blinked his skin was still stained crimson with the blood of a hundred empires. You shivered wildly as you realized you wanted to lick it off of him. Your fingers itched to brush the scopic palm he slid out to you in offering then, a dark plea hewn of ash and bone and blood, though your frazzled mind balked when he husked.

_“And you are my Queen.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely readers!!
> 
> I sincerely hope that you enjoyed this latest installment in The Seventh Seal! Please let me know your thoughts on this, what did you think about the big reveal at the end, how will the reader react?? Was our favorite flaxen haired Anti-Christ in character??!
> 
> A HUGE thank you to all the wonderful people that have supported this fic, you all are awesome and I can't wait to hear your feedback!
> 
> I really hope that you enjoyed, there will be more coming very soon! The next chapter will be longer and will def include smut, so buckle up buttercups!!
> 
> Moodboard for chapter two of this fic is linked[ here](https://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/188348335444/chapter-2-the). 
> 
> Feel free to follow/PM me on Tumblr!
> 
> Thanks!


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